


Legacy

by minusoneday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Allison POV, Allison-centric, Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, M/M, Teen Wolf Reverse Bang, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minusoneday/pseuds/minusoneday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There is no escape - we pay for the violence of our ancestors.</i> - Frank Herbert</p><p>The sheriff brings the criminal to justice, and the bounty hunter chases after the outlaw, but who is there to go after life's monsters, to protect the innocent from what lurks in the night? Just the hunter, the knight out of myth and legend, the hero who picks up a sword to slay the murdering beast.</p><p>It's a noble burden, a bright and shining path, until the lines begin to blur and it's no longer clear who, exactly, the true monsters really are.</p><p> </p><p>~*~*~*~</p><p>(Please see the END notes for a few additional warnings and explanations. If you are concerned about triggers, please read through them, as I haven't necessarily explicitly tagged them, so as to avoid spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Teen Wolf Reverse Bang. I was lucky enough to claim pembroke's FANTASTIC Western AU art. Please, go look at it and leave many lovely comments, because it is awesome. Thank you for providing me with such lovely inspiration! The wonderful art can be found [here](http://pembroke.tumblr.com/post/41639776806/hey-look-its-finally-time-for-twreversebang)!
> 
> This story was also inspired by the real-life Pinkertons of the Old West. Feel free to read about them [here](http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/pinkertons-maim-frank-and-jesse-james-mother). I loved the idea of the so-called "good guys" grievously crossing a line, which is how this story became so very Argent-focused. This story is really about Allison, and her coping with her family's fall from grace. I'm hoping my world-building stands on its own, but the West in the 1800s isn't at all my forte, so there is every possibility you might find some anachronisms peppered throughout. Sorry for that in advance!
> 
> For those of you who are all about Stiles and Derek, I'd like to give a fair warning that they don't feature heavily in this fic. There's a lot going on with them, but as of right now, it's all offscreen. I'd love to do some outtakes focusing on them in the future, but I don't know precisely when I'll have the time. Just know that this is pretty strictly an Allison POV, but just because she isn't present for certain interactions and events, doesn't mean there isn't quite a bit more going on outside the edges of this fic.
> 
> Enough rambling from me! Thanks so much for reading, and I hope this doesn't disappoint!
> 
> (Again: please see the END notes for a few additional warnings and explanations. If you are concerned about triggers, please read through them, as I haven't necessarily explicitly tagged them, so as to avoid spoilers.)

They lie low after Chicago.

Chris leads them to a ramshackle house on the edge of a small town a few days’ ride away, the kind of town that won’t have heard anything about the situation they’ve left behind, the rumors that might, even now, be chasing after them.

“We should have stayed,” Kate says on day number three, her voice unsettlingly even. They’re all gathered in the front room - bare, but for their saddlebags and a few thick stumps dragged in for seating. Allison’s dad is busy mending socks, while Allison reads through a battered copy of L’Art de la Guerre - a present from Gerard on her last birthday.

Kate is over in the corner, methodically cleaning her rifle with quick, efficient hands, a routine so familiar she doesn’t even have to look anymore.

“Kate,” Chris says. It’s a warning, plain and simple, but Kate ignores it.

“Don’t you understand how this makes us look?” she demands. “It makes us look like _we_ were in the wrong!”

“Because we were,” Chris says, a hard looking coming into his face. “ _You_ were. We follow the Code - ”

That’s when Kate gets to her feet, stands up so fast her rifle clatters to the ground. It’s a good thing she has it half taken apart, or one of them might be crumpling from the pain of a bullet wound right now.

“I did exactly as we were taught,” Kate says. “I found the animals, and I put them down - ”

“Allison, go check on the horses,” Chris interrupts. It’s an order, not a request.

Allison doesn’t protest - not with the way the mood has gone heavy and suffocating, the way it seems to do too often, recently. She grabs her boots, slides them on, then slips outside, leaving the increasingly raised voices - the shouts of “innocent” and “human” and “monsters” - behind her.

It’s a hot, sticky day, the kind that almost makes Allison wish she was wearing a dress: something lightweight - linen, maybe, the sort of outfit her mother used to put her in when she was younger, back when Allison still wore silky ribbons and bows and lace.

Trousers are more practical, better for riding and better for running. She gets some odd looks sometimes, depending on the town they’re in, but no one dares say anything when she’s striding alongside her father and Kate. She knows the sight they make, knows that it’s perfectly intentional, meant to raise themselves up to the figures of legends: the great hunters, riding into town to save the day from vicious beasts.

The horses don’t actually need to be checked; Allison took care of that first thing this morning, so instead, she heads down to the creek that’s tucked behind their temporary home. The grass is dry and scrubby there, the water a mere trickle as it winds its way through the dust and dirt. Allison lies down beside it anyway, closes her eyes and lets the quiet noises of the prairie filter in, a welcome distraction from the argument she’s left behind.

To say that things have been tense lately would be a gross understatement. Allison’s never seen her father so angry before, and certainly not at Aunt Kate. She’s confident they’ll make their peace with one another, but Chicago is probably going to be another one of those things they don’t talk about.

Like Dodge City, after what happened to her mother. Or Beacon Hills. Allison still hasn’t been told the whole story of what happened there, but she knows enough not to ask.

Allison wouldn’t mind staying here for awhile, she doesn’t think. The weather’s been warm, and the townsfolk are nice enough - no sideways glances at her preferred outfits of men’s shirts and trousers, for one. There hasn’t been any recognition, either, no widening of the eyes that always seems to accompany an Argent’s entrance.

Allison is grateful for that in particular. The Argent name used to be well-respected, even admired. But theirs has been a swift and brutal fall from grace, and Allison doesn’t like the way people watch them now, as if they fear her family just as much as they used to adore them.

The chirp of a cricket sounds from the grass beside her, somewhere to the left of her ear. She keeps her eyes closed and breathes in deep, making the most of this momentary respite.

The moment ends shortly thereafter, broken by the sudden pounding of horse hooves. Allison is on her feet instantly, her hand already going for the knife strapped to the inside of her boot. She should have taken her bow and arrow with her - her father is forever telling her she needs to be better about keeping it by her side.

When the horse slows to a stop though, Allison realizes the rider is one she recognizes.

“Bennett?” she asks, lowering her knife, but keeping her grip steady around the handle.

Bennett dismounts before the horse has even slowed to a complete stop, his vault effortless and graceful. He’s the most natural rider Allison’s ever encountered, and that’s including Kate.

“Where’s your father?” Bennett asks. His face is streaked with dirt and sweat; he must have ridden hard to get here.

“Inside with Kate,” Allison replies. “What’s going on?”

“Gerard wants everyone in Beacon Hills,” he says grimly. He anticipates Allison’s next question before she can ask it.

“Derek Hale’s back,” Bennett says. “And he’s got himself a pack.”

~*~*~*~

It’s a long trip to Beacon Hills, made even longer by the fact that Kate and Chris aren’t speaking to one another. Allison alternates between who she rides with, starting her days with Kate, who has turned almost gleeful at the prospect of finally getting their hands on Derek Hale, then falling back to keep pace with her father when Kate’s focus and anticipation starts to grate.

It isn’t that Allison isn’t feeling her own personal rush of emotions, but none of them are glee. There’s anger and vengeance, all tied up with a cold sort of callousness that tells Allison she’ll be able to do whatever it takes to bring Hale down. He deserves it, after what he did to her mother.

That doesn’t mean Kate’s excitement is easy to stomach, not when a mere mention of Derek Hale reminds Allison all over again that her mother is gone, and most days, Allison moves to ride with Chris at the first opportunity she gets.

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened in Beacon Hills?” Allison finally asks on a blazing hot afternoon, when Kate and Bennett are scouting up ahead.

Chris shoots her a look, his mouth the same thin line it’s been for over two weeks now. “You know the pertinent information,” he says in clipped tones, which earns him a scowl from Allison.

“I know bare bones, and that’s it. All you’ve ever told me is that Kate took out the Hales and got herself run out of town for it.”

“You don’t need to know any more than that,” Chris says, and that’s when Allison nudges her horse forward, quickly enough that she can veer abruptly in front of her father, effectively cutting him off, at least for the moment.

“I’m seventeen now, not a child,” she says, staring him down. “And Derek Hale is the reason my mother is dead, so I think I have a right to know the details of the history we have with him.”

They hold each other’s gazes for a long moment, then Chris swears quietly under his breath.

“Kate burned them out,” he finally says, voice gritty and dark. “The Hales. Derek wasn’t there - neither was his sister Laura.”

“That I already know,” Allison interrupts. “Why was she run out of town? People usually want to _thank_ us for what we do.”

Chris rubs a hand over his face, his calloused fingertips scritching over days-old stubble. He looks tired, Allison realizes, older than his forty-six years.

“No one in Beacon Hills knew the Hales were werewolves,” Chris says. “They were well-liked in town, well-known. There had been a rash of murders in the area that Kate linked back to the family, but she was never able to produce any hard evidence.”

Allison keeps silent, because that can’t possibly be the whole story. Generally, once a town found out a werewolf’s true identity, they were ready to burn them at the stake themselves, regardless of whether or not they’d hurt anyone. It was only a matter of time, anyway, with werewolves.

“There were... younger members of the family who died in that fire,” Chris finally adds, wearily. “When the townsfolk saw the bodies...”

“Children, you mean,” Allison says, unable to keep the horror from her voice. “That’s - but the Code says - ”

“I know what the Code says,” Chris snaps, anger and frustration sharpening his words. “Kate’s actions were... regretful, but - ”

“Regretful?” Allison chokes. “Dad - ”

Chris silences her with a look. “Mistakes happen,” he says, though it’s lacking his usual conviction. “It was an unfortunate incident, but in the grand scheme of what we do, it’s a footnote. We’ve saved far more people than we’ve harmed - _Kate’s_ saved countless more lives than she’s taken.”

Allison’s stomach is churning sickeningly though. She’d known about the fire, of course - it was a method Kate had employed more than once, on the jobs where they didn’t want to risk getting close enough to slash a werewolf in half - but the thought of _children_ being trapped inside, even if they were werewolves...

It unsettles her the same way Chicago had, makes her wonder all over again about Kate’s particular brand of fanaticism.

“And she couldn’t prove a link to the murders?” Allison asks, a slight tremble in the question.

“Derek and Laura ran,” Chris says, his expression hardening once more. “They ran, without even making an attempt to plead their case. And look at all the things Hale has done since.”

He doesn’t need to go into detail; Allison is well-aware of the laundry list of sins Derek Hale has committed. Stagecoach robbery, destruction of property, cattle rustling to start with - and he’d been responsible for the deaths of at least three hunters over the past eight years, not to mention her own mother. 

Allison isn’t even entirely sure how he’s back in Beacon Hills, not with all the warrants out for his arrest. It makes her wonder if the town might be protecting him, or if maybe he’s staying hidden away and letting his betas interact with the townsfolk in his stead.

Still, there’s something suspiciously like sympathy coiled in Allison’s stomach, and that’s an emotion she never thought she’d feel toward Derek Hale. She’ll never, ever forgive him for what he did to her mother, and she knows when the time comes, she won’t shed a tear over his death, but there’s still a wisp of sorrow underneath her anger, a brief sense of wondering whether Hale was always a murdering, thieving bastard, or if it was the Argents themselves who made him that way.

“The past is the past,” Chris says, breaking in on Allison’s thoughts. She jerks her head up, startled, her fingers tightening convulsively around her reins. Her father is looking at her with a blank face on, the mask he wears when he doesn’t trust himself to keep his emotions at bay. “And if Derek Hale has the opportunity, he’ll slit every single one of our throats, no questions asked. What’s important now is finishing this.”

Allison can see the sense in that statement, and she allows herself a single, stiff nod. “I understand,” she says, despite the fact that Chris’ story has left her feeling unsettled at best, and downright horrified at worst.

“Your Aunt Kate can sometimes take things to an extreme,” Chris allows, very quietly. Allison thinks of Chicago again, never too far from her mind these days. “But she’s a good hunter - one of the best. And whether the people of Beacon Hills realize it or not, a werewolf will never be more than an animal, no matter how well they play at being human.”

Allison nods again, still unwilling to speak, then nudges her horse into a fast gallop, wanting to put some space between herself and her father.

~*~*~*~

“I’ve hardly seen you all day,” Kate says, motioning for Allison to come sit down beside her. They’ve stopped for the night, made camp and eaten, and Bennett and Chris are already asleep. Allison’s mostly kept to herself, and she’s too jittery to fall asleep right now, so when Kate calls her over, she goes.

“Are you okay?” Kate prompts. “It isn’t like you to be this quiet.”

“Dad told me about Beacon Hills today,” Allison says, settling in across from Kate, rather than beside her.

Kate’s eyes go cold. It only lasts a moment, before a crooked smile twists its way onto her mouth. “Your father and I have very different opinions on Beacon Hills,” she says. “And he wasn’t even there for it, so why don’t I tell you my version?”

Allison hesitates, but nods, and Kate moves closer, her voice dropping down to a murmur.

“When I got to Beacon Hills, there was a murder every two weeks,” she says. “Bodies found on the outskirts of town, ripped apart and mangled. The official word was animal attacks, but I think you know by now how rarely that tends to be the case.”

Allison inclines her head, agreeing, because over the past few years she’s learned all the ways in which the average person tends to want to stick their head in the sand about the reality of things that go bump in the night. People still revel in ignorance, wanting to think that what they don’t know can’t hurt them, when it turns out, what they don’t know can tear them apart.

“I had my suspicions the Hales were werewolves,” Kate continues, “but I had to be sure, so I got some confirmation.”

“How?” Allison asks immediately, and Kate smirks, her eyes lighting up.

“Derek Hale had a weak spot for green eyes and older women,” she says, and Allison does a quick calculation. Rumor has it Hale is in his early-to-mid-twenties now, which would have made him only fifteen or sixteen back then, to Kate’s twenty-four. Her stomach gives another nasty flip.

“Once he decided he was in love with me,” Kate continues, “he told me everything I wanted to know.” She’s proudly smug; Allison can read it in her face and hear it in her voice.

“How did you know the Hales were responsible for the attacks?” Allison asks after another moment has passed.

Kate laughs. “Isn’t it always werewolves?” she says, arching a perfect eyebrow. “Besides, I heard howling one night, so I grabbed my gun and went to investigate. I was just in time to see Derek’s parents stumbling back toward their property, covered in blood. The next morning, there was another body found.”

It’s damning evidence, and Allison finds herself almost grateful for it. It makes everything else a little bit easier to swallow, easier to rationalize.

Well, almost everything.

“Dad said there were children,” Allison says, gaze fixed to Kate’s face, watching for her reaction.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Kate murmurs, and she reaches out to tuck Allison’s hair behind her ear, a fond little smile curving around her mouth. “Are you thinking they were innocent? Like little puppies? You don’t get rid of half of the pack, then leave the rest behind to seek their revenge. They would’ve grown up to be killers, if they weren’t already. Just look at what Derek and Laura turned into.”

Allison isn’t sure what she was expecting - some remorse, maybe, or regret, but not satisfaction. Not pride.

“You’ll learn,” Kate sighs, tapping two fingers gently against Allison’s cheek, then dropping her hand. “It’s the burden of this job - sometimes we have to make tough calls. It gets easier for most of us, though your father’s always been shit at it. It’s why he’s still pouting about Chicago.”

“Pouting,” Allison echoes, mind racing back to the scene they’d left behind, the bodies, the two who had died still holding hands...

Kate only smiles, and Allison swallows hard.

“I’m tired,” she says, hoping her voice doesn’t betray the tightness of her throat. “I think I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Good night, sweetie,” Kate says easily. Allison walks away quickly, heading for the bedroll she’d already laid out all the way on the opposite side of their campsite. She slips under the blankets, taking care to keep her back to Kate; she doesn’t think she wants her aunt to see her face right now, to take note of whatever troubled expression might be there.

Because Kate had said it was their job to make tough calls, had termed it a burden, but for something to be a burden, you have to be torn about it, and Allison has never seen Kate anything less than one hundred percent committed to an action. She’s never seen her doubting or broken up about anything, and Beacon Hills was probably the same, judging by the way Kate hadn’t wavered once in her retelling, hadn’t so much as flinched. It’s a far cry from her father’s version, which had been so painfully forced out.

It’s a long while before Allison falls asleep, but when she does, she dreams of children and puppies and entwined hands, and the desperate screams and howls that get swallowed up, one by one, by flames.

~*~*~*~

It takes them over two months to make their way to the next town over from Beacon Hills, where Gerard has been holed up with two of his best men, waiting on them.

“Took you long enough,” he says when they finally arrive.

“You can only push a good horse so far,” Chris says, voice flat. He’s eyeing his father from a good fifteen feet and not making any move to get closer. Kate, however, crosses over to him and offers him a kiss on the cheek, though she foregoes a hug.

“Well?” Gerard says, motioning to Allison. “Come give your old grandfather a kiss.”

Allison had loved Gerard when she was younger. Before she was filled in on the family business, he used to read her stories and dance her around the room on the tops of his feet. As she’d gotten older, however, he’d been the one to oversee her training, and these days, her formerly uncomplicated love has tangled itself up with fear.

She can still remember a hunter - Maguire - who had disobeyed orders; Gerard had cut off his ears, since, according to Gerard, he clearly didn’t need them if he wasn’t going to listen. And Allison’s seen him remain stony-faced and impassive in the face of more than one werewolf, pleading for his life, no emotion whatsoever on his face, even as he moves in to strike a killing blow.

Gerard is the most terrifying and ruthless person she knows, but Allison obediently goes to press a kiss to his thin, papery cheek.

“Now,” Gerard says, “Allison, Bennett, get those horses taken care of, while Chris, Kate and I discuss our next step. Come join us once you’re finished.”

There’s no talk of resting, or a hot meal. This is the Argents in war mode, when everything but their purpose falls to the wayside.

Allison lingers in the stables, longer than necessary, perhaps, until she reaches a point where she can’t stay any longer without drawing attention, so she gives her horse a last pat and heads inside.

To her surprise, there’s no business being discussed; everyone’s just starting in on steaming bowls of stew, and Allison gratefully takes the one that Kate hands her.

It’s not until they’re finishing up that Chris clears his throat and pins Allison with a stern look.

“Allison,” he says, “you and I will be settling in Beacon Hills. Hale won’t know us on sight, and neither will the townsfolk. We’ll be the eyes and ears for everyone here.

Allison nods, though she nudges her bowl away from her, no longer hungry for the last few spoonfuls. “Has Hale made any contact with the townspeople?” she asks. “Or has he kept away?”

“From what Gerard says, he’s holding court with his baby betas on the very edge of town,” Kate says with a smirk. “He keeps to himself; most of the people living in town have no idea who he is - they’ve dismissed him as an eccentric.”

“He is regularly in touch with Sheriff Stilinski,” Gerard says. “I have no idea why the Sheriff is comfortable harboring an outlaw, other than he must be sympathetic to whatever cover story Hale fed him. Hale has also forged an... intriguing friendship with the Sheriff’s son.” He looks at Allison with an expression on his face that she recognizes from the time he showed her just how you can use wolfsbane to make a werewolf scream.

“The boy is your age,” Gerard continues, “so that will be your responsibility. Get close to him, earn his trust. Find out what he knows about Hale and see if you can work your way in. With three betas, Hale is going to be a formidable opponent; we need all of the advantages we can get.”

Allison glances quickly at her father; he doesn’t look thrilled with the particulars of this plan, but isn’t protesting either.

“Allison,” Gerard says again, eyebrows lifting in question, “can you manage it?”

“Yes,” Allison says, pushing down all of her doubts about this situation, shoving away the uneasiness she’s been feeling for weeks now over what they do. The past is the past, Chris had said, and whatever problematic decisions the Argents might have made previously, now isn’t the time to revisit them. So Allison thinks of her mother, instead, lets her anger and thirst for vengeance boil up inside of her once more, safe and familiar.

“Yes,” she repeats. “Absolutely.”

“Excellent,” Gerard says, smile widening. “Now, who wants dessert?”

~*~*~*~

The very next day, Allison follows Chris into town, where they book themselves two rooms at The Last Chance, a hotel and saloon owned by a Ms. Cynthia Martin.

Allison doesn’t like the way Ms. Martin eyes her father, doesn’t like the way Chris smiles back, eyes bright and happy in a way she hasn’t seen since they lost her mother. It’s an act, she knows it’s an act, but it still makes her stomach twist. Her discomfort must be plain on her face, because Ms. Martin takes one look at her and exclaims, “Oh, honey, you look bored to tears. Why don’t you let my daughter show you around town? She’ll introduce you to everyone important - Lydia!”

Before Allison can protest that she’s just fine staying right where she is, a clearly disgruntled redhead sweeps in from the next room over dressed in a gown with so many frills that it rustles as she moves across the floor. She stops abruptly in front of Allison, then gives her a long, obvious once-over, gaze lingering over her trousers and boots.

Allison lifts a single eyebrow, waiting for the biting commentary she’s sure is coming; to her surprise, Lydia gives a satisfied nod and flashes her a smile.

“That suits you wonderfully,” she says crisply. “Though if you’re ever in the mood to wear a dress instead, one of our visitors left behind a red silk that would look _divine_ on you. There wouldn’t be a boy for miles not falling over his feet for a chance to kiss your hand.”

“I... thank you?” Allison says, while Chris clears his throat, looking abruptly unhappy.

“We’ll be back later,” Lydia chirps, grabbing Allison by the arm and propelling her right out the door.

“And where are we going, exactly?” Allison asks.

“I’m supposed to show you around, aren’t I?” Lydia asks. “Come on, we’ll go meet Jackson first, he’ll be at his father’s store this time of day.”

~*~*~*~

Jackson is no different than every other small-town rich boy Allison’s ever met. He’s smug and self-satisfied, and all Allison can think is how Lydia could do so much better. Even having spent just fifteen minutes in her company, Allison can tell how smart she is - too smart to be wrapped up in someone like Jackson Whittemore.

Allison hasn’t really paid attention to their conversation since Jackson started talking; instead, she lets her gaze wander around the store, taking in the neatly-lined shelves, the penny candy on the counter, and the artfully-stacked jars of pickles in one corner.

“ - you cover me or not?”

The voice breaks in on Allison’s idle thoughts, and she turns quickly, eyeing two boys who have just entered. Both look about her age, one with thick, dark hair and the kind of eyes that no doubt crinkle when he smiles, and the other tall and lean, his own hair shorn close to his head.

“Scott,” the second one says, “I’m _begging_ you, if my dad finds out...”

Allison doesn’t pay attention to the rest of what he’s saying, because Scott chooses that moment to glance at her, and then, for all intents and purposes, his glance gets stuck. He looks at her the way people in novels do when they meet their intended love interest, stunned and overwhelmed and breathless.

There’s an unwanted blush creeping up into Allison’s cheeks, but she can’t look away either, even to spare herself the embarrassment. When he notices the flush, he smiles, slow and broad, and yes, his eyes crinkle just the way she’d thought they would. He moves toward her without hesitation, ignoring his friend’s squawk of annoyance, and Allison doesn’t take her eyes off of him for a second.

“Good afternoon, miss,” he says, once he reaches her. Beside them, Lydia and Jackson have gone quiet.

“Hello,” Allison says, hard-pressed to fight a smile of her own. “It’s Scott, I hear?”

“You hear right,” Scott says, beaming at her. “And you?”

“Allison,” Allison says, and she isn’t sure what’s wrong with her, because she’s never felt so warm and giddy over a handsome boy’s smile before.

“Scott’s the stock boy here,” Jackson sneers, then makes an unhappy noise when Lydia elbows him sharply in the stomach.

“So, the pickle jar display - that was your doing?” Allison asks. “Because I was admiring it before you walked in.” She offers him a wink and notes the way his embarrassment fades into a pleased flush.

“It _is_ kind of a work of art,” Scott’s friend agrees, finally joining them, slinging his arm around Scott’s shoulders and sending Jackson a dirty look. He offers Allison a friendly wave, expression softening as he faces her. “I’m - ”

“Just leaving,” Jackson interrupts, ignoring Lydia’s hissed scold of, “Jackson!”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Allison says brightly. “I’ll go with them - you gentlemen wouldn’t mind showing me around the rest of town, would you?”

“Not at all,” Scott says, sounding like taking Allison on a tour of Beacon Hills is the best thing to ever happen to him. He’s adorable, and unless Allison’s first impressions are wrong (which they rarely are), he’s just as sweet and genuine as he seems.

“Perfect,” Allison says, then deliberately tucks her hand in the crook of Scott’s elbow. “See you later, Lydia!”

Lydia and Jackson watch them go, wearing twin looks of astonishment. As soon as the door swings closed behind them, Scott’s friend lets out a whoop, a startling burst of delighted laughter.

“That,” he crows, “was _amazing_. Did you see Jackson’s face? I’ve been waiting my entire _life_ to see Jackson’s face look like that!”

“That was really decent of you,” Scott says, still looking at Allison like she’s something amazing. She can feel another blush lurking, just underneath her skin, and she swallows quickly, willing it to go away.

“It was nothing - I don’t like bullies,” she says, giving Scott’s arm a friendly squeeze. “And, I’m sorry,” she says to his friend, “but I never got your name?”

“Stiles,” he says, extending his hand for a shake. “Stiles Stilinski.”

Allison freezes. “Stilinski,” she repeats. “As in... Sheriff Stilinski’s son?”

“Yep,” Stiles says, looking proud. “He’s my dad. Hey, have you met him yet? We could head over there next, he always likes a chance to talk with any folks who are passing through town.”

“Oh, well, sure,” Allison says, fumbling the words. She shouldn’t be feeling so taken aback, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the Sheriff’s son would fall so easily into her lap.

It’s for the best, certainly, considering she won’t have to manufacture a meeting, but she does feel a stab of regret as she glances at Scott, already certain that anything that develops between them will be doomed before it properly starts.

“This way, then,” Stiles announces, throwing Scott a significant look before deliberately lengthening his stride, putting some distance between them.

She and Scott make small talk as they stroll, Allison’s arm still tucked in his. Scott tells her about his mother, who works for the town’s only doctor, and how he’s working for Jackson’s father in the hopes that he can make enough money to go away to college someday soon.

“Stiles is the smart one,” Scott confides, nodding toward his friend, still walking up ahead. “But he swears he isn’t going until I can come with him, so I’m doing my best to save up.”

“You seem like really great friends,” Allison says.

“Since we were five,” Scott grins. “We’re practically brothers. You know what it’s like, I’m sure.”

Allison hesitates, her steps slowing unthinkingly. “I... no,” she admits. “We move around too much, I’ve never really had a chance to make many friends, let alone a best friend.”

She risks a sideways glance at Scott and is relieved to see that he only looks a little bit sad, not pitying.

“I’ll tell you what,” he murmurs, ducking in close so that his lips are at her ear, “I’ll share Stiles with you. He’s a handful, it’ll be nice to have someone to share the responsibility with.”

It startles a laugh out of Allison, happy and bright. “How generous of you,” she says. “And what about you? No friendship from you?”

Scott flushes again, a slow, “aw shucks” grin spreading across his face that Allison spots the instant before he ducks his head. “I was maybe hoping for something besides friendship from you,” he says, almost bashfully. “Something... more than friendship.”

It’s earnest and forthright, and Allison thinks she might already love him for that, a little bit. Too much of her life has been steeped in games and half-truths, and it would be so refreshing, she thinks, to have something uncomplicated and easy for once, to have something purely _good_ , even if she knows it can’t last.

“I think your chances are good,” she says, determinedly looking straight ahead. She doesn’t have to peek to know that Scott’s positively beaming though, radiating happiness.

Up ahead, Stiles stops at the Beacon Hills jail, then opens the door with a flourish to usher them through. “Right this way,” he says easily, clearly pleased for the chance to show off a bit.

The Sheriff is perfectly polite and friendly when Allison meets him, though he seems a bit distracted by the amount of work he has piled on his desk. Allison dutifully introduces herself as Allison Pinkerton, the identity she and her father are using, since ‘Argent’ is too much of a dead giveaway.

After they’ve left the Sheriff’s company, Stiles tosses out some excuse about needing to get a cake started, and he disappears, leaving Allison and Scott alone.

“Cake?” she asks, eyebrows lifting. “Really?”

“Really,” Scott says, looking amused. “His mom used to bake - she was the one everyone would come to when they needed something extra special. She was amazing.”

There’s a shade of sadness in his tone, and Allison reaches out, takes his hand in her own. “Was?” she prompts gently.

“She died,” Scott says quietly, sadly. “A few years ago. But she taught Stiles a lot before he lost her, and he likes trying out her recipes - makes it feel like she’s still around somehow, I think.

“Understandable,” Allison murmurs, giving his hand a squeeze.

She doesn’t offer up any anecdotes about her own mother. It might blow her cover, for one, and two, she’s still not comfortable talking about it, not even after all this time. She doesn’t have anything of her mother’s that she can claim for herself, unless you count a vendetta and a mission as suitable remembrances.

Scott doesn’t press her to talk about her family at all, and Allison is grateful for it. Things are too complicated right now, and it’s not like she could tell him the truth, anyway. But he doesn’t ask, so she doesn’t lie, and the afternoon passes by too quickly, Allison caught up in Scott’s easy, ringing laugh, the teasing tucked into the corner of his smile.

“Can I see you again?” he asks hopefully, once it’s gotten close to dinnertime and they’ve finally made their way back to Ms. Martin’s saloon.

“What a ridiculous question,” Allison says, and for an answer, leans in and presses a kiss to Scott’s cheek before she darts inside.

“Tomorrow!” Scott calls after her, and yes, tomorrow, Allison thinks.

~*~*~*~

“Did you see the town?” Chris asks her over dinner - roasted chicken and potatoes, Ms. Martin’s specialty.

“I did,” Allison says, spearing one onto her fork. “I met the Sheriff, too.” She hesitates, potato halfway to her mouth. “And his son,” she adds, then takes the bite, chewing furiously.

Her father looks... not exactly pleased, when she glances up at him. It might be relief, instead, like he’s hoping they can finish this job quickly and then get out.

“Good,” he says. “I’ll introduce myself to the Sheriff tomorrow, but the sooner you can dig up some information on Hale, the better.”

“I know,” Allison says, nudging her plate to the center of the table, her appetite gone. “I think I’m going to head upstairs, unpack my things a bit more.”

“Not too much,” Chris warns. “If we have to leave quickly...”

Allison’s chest tightens at the thought of having to race out of town, leaving Scott behind, but she’s sure that’s the way this ends, regardless. She should prepare herself for it now, before she’s in too deep, and so she only nods at her father, then heads upstairs to lay out tomorrow’s clothes.

 

~*~*~*~

Scott shows up the next morning with a bouquet of wildflowers - a bit scraggly and dry, an inescapable effect of the heat wave they’ve been experiencing - but pretty obviously the best and the brightest he’d been able to find.

“They’re beautiful,” Allison says, pleased despite herself, and Scott’s answering grin steals her breath away.

Allison dutifully introduces him to her father, before taking him by the hand and dragging him out into the morning air, already uncomfortably warm, even though the sun hasn’t been up for more than a couple hours.

She can feel Chris’ gaze on her as they go, a heavy reminder of the job Allison’s meant to be doing.

~*~*~*~

Scott kisses her for the first time two days later, and Allison gets so lost in the hesitant touch of his mouth, the heat of his palms against the small of her back, that she misses dinner entirely.

When she slips into her room, all too aware of the way her mouth is stinging and chapped and swollen, certainly noticeable to anyone who cares to look closely, she finds Kate instead of her father.

Kate takes one look at her and smirks, the expression equal parts fondness and exasperation.

“Somebody’s getting a little bit sidetracked from her mission, don’t you think, Allison?” she asks sweetly.

Allison flushes, self-consciously pressing at her mouth with the backs of her fingers. “I’m doing the best I can,” she murmurs. The words feel heavy on her tongue, the way that the boldest of lies always do.

Kate gets to her feet and saunters toward Allison, her boot heels tapping sharply and precisely against the floor. “Try to do your best a little bit faster,” she says, leaning in close to Allison’s ear; Allison can smell sweat and dust, buried under a top layer of flowery perfume. It’s cloying and fake, nothing like the flowers Scott presents her with every morning.

“Your father’s out looking for you,” Kate adds, straightening. “I’ll go find him, tell him you’re back.”

All Allison can manage for her is a nod. As soon as Kate’s gone, she kicks off her boots and climbs into her bed, curling up on top of the bedspread. The reminder of why she’s really here settles heavy and sour in her stomach, an unpleasant thickness in the back of her throat.

The mission comes first, always. She can’t keep pushing it off, she knows, not the way she’s been doing.

Tomorrow, Allison decides. Tomorrow she’ll talk to Scott, find out what exactly Stiles’ connection is to Derek Hale, figure out how her family can use it to settle their score with Hale.

And maybe if she’s lucky, there will be a way to do that without losing Scott.

~*~*~*~

Although Allison and Stiles are immediately on friendly terms by virtue of Allison’s relationship with Scott, Allison still knows next to nothing about him. While Scott is open and sweet and sincere about everything, Stiles is infinitely more cagey. He’s outgoing, certainly, and seems perfectly happy to have Allison around, but he never offers up anything personal, and he never mentions any other people he might be seeing on a regular basis.

Allison would be doubting the validity of Gerard’s information, but for the fact that Stiles is constantly disappearing - always under the pretense of allowing her and Scott some alone time, but Allison has a feeling that it’s just as convenient an excuse for Stiles as it is for them.

“Does he have other friends he’s spending time with?” Allison asks the next afternoon, when Stiles has once again taken off with minimal explanation. “He doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy spending time on his own,” she continues, “but he’s always... bolting.”

“Oh,” Scott says, shifting a little uncomfortably, and Allison swallows against the tightness in her throat. She thinks about why she’s here, all the things Hale has done, her _mother_. All of that runs deeper than a handsome boy with kind eyes and careful hands.

“He, uh...” Scott looks torn from a brief moment, then leans in close, the sort of proximity that’s reserved for sharing secrets.

Allison fights back the urge to flinch away.

“He started seeing someone, awhile ago,” Scott murmurs. “And it’s sort of... it’s a secret. He doesn’t want his dad to know.”

“Oh,” Allison says softly, biting gently at her lip. Hale has a female beta, she knows, a knockout blonde, by all accounts. That would make sense, if Stiles is with her. He’d have to forge some sort of relationship with Hale, as well, in that case.

“That must be hard,” she offers, managing a weak, lifeless smile. Scott doesn’t notice.

“It’s been rough on him,” he agrees. “He doesn’t like lying - especially not to his dad.”

“Well, could I meet her?” Allison forces herself to ask. “I’m good at keeping secrets, I promise. And then he wouldn’t have to run off every time he wanted to spend time with her. And I’d be one less person he had to lie to.”

Scott laughs, although Allison isn’t sure what, exactly, is humorous about her offer. “No, that’s - I’m not laughing at you,” Scott chuckles. “Just... well. I’ll check with Stiles. I’ll ask him.”

“Okay,” Allison agrees, not wanting to press it any further right now, especially when Scott shifts closer, his hand curving warm and strong around her neck to pull her in for a kiss.

“It was nice of you to suggest it,” he murmurs, and Allison just hums against his mouth, fingers tangling tight in his shirt. She’s completed her task for the day, which leaves her free to savor this moment, and whatever moments like it she still has left.

~*~*~*~

It takes two days to convince Stiles, but at sundown on day three, Allison finds herself walking with Scott and Stiles out to the Hale property, though technically, she’s not supposed to know it belongs to Hale yet.

For the first few minutes of their trek, things are a little awkward and silent. Stiles is up ahead, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, while Scott keeps pace with Allison, her hand caught up in his own.

Once they’re past those houses that make up the far edge of Beacon Hills’ main town center, Scott starts to give Allison a murmured, running commentary of the path they’re taking: the gnarled, crooked tree that Stiles fell out of when he was eight and broke his arm, the remains of a house that Scott swears is haunted.

“Miss Morrell lives down that way,” Scott says, pointing to a barely-there track of dirt that arcs away from the main road. “She hardly ever comes into town, but every Tuesday morning I’m out here making some sort of delivery to her - candles and herbs and string... Stiles swears she’s a witch.”

“A witch and a haunted house,” Allison echoes. “Kind of superstitious of you two, don’t you think?”

Scott offers her a crooked smile, one that doesn’t quite light up his eyes the way Allison’s grown accustomed to. It makes him look tired and worn. “Well, werewolves exist, right?” he says, giving her hand a squeeze. Up ahead, she thinks she sees Stiles’ shoulders jerk. “No reason to think there aren’t other things going bump in the night.”

 _Hunters_ , Allison thinks to herself, but doesn’t dare say it aloud.

It’s another minute or so before Stiles abruptly stops and turns to face Allison. He hasn’t said a word so far, though he’s been plenty jittery, his nerves manifesting as tics and twitches, the kind of restless energy you can’t shake.

“There are some things you should know,” he says worriedly. He brings a thumb to his mouth, teeth worrying at the nail there. “Before we get to where we’re going - I have some things I need to tell you, and I can’t have you panicking. I’m trusting you with this, but I need you to trust me in return. Can you do that?”

“I can,” Allison says steadily. She already knows what to expect, so she can be confident in that, at least. Her father knows where she is, where she’s going, and the plan is to meet Hale and his pack, take in what details she can, then report back to first her father, then Gerard.

Stiles’ eyes flick over to Scott, and everything about his expression is still so uncertain, but Scott gives a reassuring nod, his fingers slipping down to twine with Allison’s, and that’s clearly what decides Stiles, is Scott’s trust in her.

It’s a punch of guilt straight to her stomach, but she swallows hard and keeps her chin lifted.

“The person I’m... with,” Stiles says, still chewing at his thumbnail, until he finally realizes what he’s doing and drops his hand, shoving it into his pocket instead. “It’s - they’re a werewolf. And if you can’t handle that, I’d just as soon we turn around now.”

Allison keeps her expression schooled perfectly, though she lets her eyebrows tick up in feigned surprise. “Oh,” she says, stumbling over her words for good measure. “I - that’s - unexpected.”

Stiles is watching her so carefully, but he starts to look reassured when she doesn’t run from him, screaming.

“Is that why you haven’t told your father?” she asks quietly, sympathetically, and Stiles’ mouth twists.

“That’s - no, that’s not even the main reason,” Stiles says. “I think he’d be okay with the werewolf part, just...” He sighs, rubs at the back of his neck and looks imploringly at Allison. “My, uh... werewolf... they’ve had a few run-ins with the law, I guess you could say. But it isn’t like everyone thinks, he’s not - he isn’t a bad person, and after everything he’s been through, I just, I can’t - ”

“He?” Allison interrupts. Her heart is suddenly pumping erratically in her chest, pulse thundering at her temples.

“Derek Hale,” Stiles admits, and Allison actually gasps, shock overcoming the polite surprise she’d been angling for. Her expression must be horrified, because Stiles makes a desperate noise and rounds on Scott, clearly panicking.

“You said she’d be okay with it!” Stiles exclaims. “You - you said I could trust her!”

“Allison - ” Scott says, sounding alarmed, but Allison shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she manages, but her voice is shaky. “You can trust me, you can, I’m sorry, I just - Derek _Hale_? _The_ Derek Hale?”

“He’s a good person,” Stiles says, his voice aching. The way he’s looking at her - it’s like he’s pleading with her to understand. “He’s lost everyone he’s ever loved, and he didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

“He has - I’ve seen his wanted posters,” Allison says. “He’s wanted for - for all sorts of things. Robbery and _murder_ \- and your dad’s the _Sheriff_ , Stiles, how could you - ”

“He’s done what he had to survive,” Stiles cuts her off. He’s holding himself stiffly now, she can see the tension lining every muscle. He isn’t pleading anymore; he’s angry. “And it isn’t my story to tell, but I don’t blame him for any of it.”

“He’s not what you’d think,” Scott interjects carefully, placing a soothing, calming hand at the center of Allison’s back. “He’s really not, Allison, I promise.”

Before Allison can reply though, Stiles shakes his head. “This was a mistake,” he says, looking at Allison like she’s betrayed him. “God, I don’t know what I was thinking - this was a terrible idea to begin with.”

“I’m sorry,” Allison says quickly. “I’m sorry, everything just caught me off guard, I wasn’t expecting...” She trails off and gestures vaguely, like the motion can encompass everything about this situation.

She could have rationalized them being friends. She knows how curious Stiles is; Scott has one hundred and one stories about all the trouble they’d gotten into as children, so she could easily see the sort of draw an outlaw werewolf would hold for somebody like Stiles.

But to go and fall in _love_ with one... she can’t even begin to wrap her mind around it. Hale is responsible for some terrible things, and here Stiles is _defending_ them. Because they’re together, they’re in a relationship...

Her thoughts flicker to Kate, and her stomach immediately sinks. She can’t let Kate find out about Stiles and Derek’s relationship. She can’t _ever_ find out what they are to one another.

“Scott,” Stiles says, and Allison knows she’s lost her chance to further plead her case, “take Allison back to town. And don’t ask me again to tell anyone about Derek - there’s a _reason_ I’ve been keeping it a secret, and this - this is exactly why.”

His voice is shaking; Allison doesn’t know if it’s from anger or fear. It’s possibly both.

“Stiles,” Scott says, moving away from Allison to go to his friend, but Stiles gives his head a sharp shake, and Allison thinks she sees something broken in his expression. Something that looks like betrayal. His gaze finds Allison, and his eyes are dark and panicked.

“Please don’t tell,” he says in a voice that’s pitched low. “Think whatever you want, but don’t - don’t _tell_. He isn’t hurting anyone, and my dad knows he’s here, he’d never _let_ Derek hurt someone. And he - he deserves a chance to be happy, okay?”

Allison knows she should fight this decision, should do whatever it takes to get her to the Hale homestead, but she’s so taken aback by Stiles’ admission that all she has to offer him is a weak nod. A momentary silence settles over their group, before Scott takes her hand again and starts tugging her back toward the town, though she catches the glance he throws back at Stiles, his expression more miserable and sorry than any she’s ever seen on his face.

Stiles stays right where he is, watching them go. Allison has a feeling he’ll take off for Hale’s as soon as they’re out of sight, no doubt to confess that he’s spilled Hale’s secret to someone who didn’t take it terribly well.

Allison and Scott don’t speak until they’re almost back to the town. Scott’s the one to slow to a stop, taking both of Allison’s hands in his own.

“You promised to keep this a secret before,” Scott says, and his grip tightens - not enough to be painful, but enough that Allison can’t ignore it. “Will you still?”

Lying to Scott is the worst feeling in the world, but Allison forces herself to nod anyway. It’s a little easier than saying the words and giving him a real promise. Even a nod seems to be enough for Scott though, who looks suddenly relieved.

“But aren’t you worried for him?” Allison blurts out, unable to help herself.

Scott smiles, tired, but fond. “I was at first,” he says. “But if you could see them together... he treats Stiles like he’s precious. Like he’d do anything in the world for him.” Scott reaches out, traces the back of his finger down Allison’s cheek. “The way I would for you,” he murmurs, then presses a kiss to her forehead.

Allison shudders a bit, closing her eyes as she leans in to Scott’s chest. She tries to visualize it, Derek Hale touching Stiles in the careful, loving way that Scott touches her, but she can’t manage it. She hadn’t been there when he’d attacked her mother - she and Chris had been twenty miles away, holding down headquarters, when the rest of the Argent clan had finally tracked down Derek and Laura. It had been a vicious fight, and they’d lost three of their best hunters, but Allison’s mother had managed to put an arrow through Laura’s throat, bringing her down long enough for Gerard to cut her in half.

That was when Derek had gone for her, savaged her badly enough that her mother had bled out in minutes, and he’d escaped in the ensuing chaos, leaving his sister’s body behind.

She’s seen the posters depicting Hale, his sharp, angled features, obscured by a rich, dark beard and a trademark black hat. Even in the drawings, there’s nothing kind, or gentle, or sweet about him. He’s handsome, to be certain, but everything about him screams danger, and Allison can’t find it in her to believe Scott’s words.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” Allison says after a long while, and she knows Scott will take it to mean her reaction to Stiles’ secret, even though she’s more sorry for what she knows is going to come next.

“I will,” Scott promises, winding his arms around her tightly, pressing another kiss to the top of her head. They stay that way for long minutes, until Allison finally shifts away, looking up at him apologetically.

“I should go find my dad,” she says, giving Scott an out to go to his best friend. She can read that need in him easily, knows he won’t relax until he’s had a chance to smooth things over.

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning,” Scott promises. “It’s a Tuesday, so I’ll have to head out to Morell’s first thing, but after?”

“All right,” Allison agrees, and he sweeps her into one last, lingering kiss before he breaks away, trotting back in the direction they’d just come.

He doesn’t look back, which is for the best, because as she watches him go, Allison’s eyes start to feel wet. She’s not a crier, never has been, but she’s on the verge of it now. She never wanted this role to begin with, but that’s doubly true now that she’s met Scott, grown to like him so much, maybe even to love him. And her family’s plans for Derek Hale - knowing that what’s going to do to _Stiles_ , and in turn Scott - 

A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it away angrily. She’s not going to cry. It was a mistake to get attached, but she had known that from the beginning, and now she’s simply going to have to deal with it.

Once she has herself under control, she heads back to Ms. Martin’s, knowing her father should be there this time of night. The sunlight’s almost completely faded by the time Allison reaches the door, and she darts through the front room, ignoring Lydia’s hopeful glance, then takes the stairs two at a time up to their rooms.

Her father’s door is unlocked when she tries the handle, and so she simply pushes it open and steps in.

“He’s with Hale,” she bursts out, as soon as her gaze lands on Chris, who’s sitting directly across from the door, at the small table his room had come with. Panic makes her need to spit the words out as fast as possible, to unload this burden onto someone else, because she doesn’t want to be suffering the information alone anymore. “They’re together - that’s how they know each other. They - they’re in love.”

Chris’ eyes widen, horror dawning on his face, and he suddenly, inexplicably, shifts his glance to the side. Allison follows his line of sight and nearly recoils as she spots Kate, sprawled casually across Chris’ bed.

“Well, well, well,” she purrs, eyes gleaming as she sits up. “That is a _fascinating_ development.”

Allison hears footsteps on the stairs and quickly slams the door shut, then throws the lock. “You can’t hurt him,” she says desperately, crossing over to Kate. “Stiles - you can’t - he hasn’t done anything wrong, you have to promise - ”

“He’s harboring a fugitive, isn’t he?” Kate asks, her eyes hard. “Not to mention fucking a werewolf - ”

“Kate!” Chris snaps, his gaze burning furiously. “Watch your mouth.”

“ _Sorry_ ,” Kate says, but rolls her eyes, her insincerity clear.

“You can’t hurt him,” Allison says again, heart racing. She hadn’t known Kate was in the room - she’d never meant for her to find out about this, she’d only wanted to tell her father, to ask him what to do. Her father had been upset about Chicago, after all, Allison had _heard_ him tell Kate she was in the wrong...

“He’s the Sheriff’s son, Allison,” Kate says with another eyeroll. “Please, honey, I’m not stupid.”

Kate’s expression is calculating though, and Allison isn’t a bit reassured by her words.

“Kate,” she starts to say, but Kate rises fluidly to her feet, boots clicking as she walks to the door.

“I’ll go update Gerard,” she says, giving Allison’s hair a fond ruffle as she passes. “Good work, sweetie, he’s going to be so proud of you.”

She lets herself out of the room, letting it shut with a sharp click behind her, and that’s when Allison lets herself crumple to the floor. She feels on the verge of getting sick all over Ms. Martin’s nice clean floors, and she wraps an arm around her stomach, fighting the feeling.

“Allison?” Chris asks worriedly, jumping up to hover over her, but Allison waves him away, doesn’t let herself uncurl for another few minutes until she’s got herself under control, and she’s sure Kate is gone.

“I didn’t want her to know,” she croaks, pushing herself to her feet. “She’ll kill him, Dad, she’ll kill Stiles - ”

“She won’t,” Chris says firmly, grasping Allison’s arms. “We won’t let it come to that.”

“We couldn’t stop her before,” Allison says. She gulps for a breath of air, her chest tightening up uncomfortably, like the time she’d had to put on a corset in order to investigate a pack of werewolves hiding out at a saloon. “In Chicago - it’s going to be Chicago all over again, Dad - ”

“No,” Chris says again, but there isn’t enough surety in his voice. “Allison, Chicago was a fluke - ”

“It _wasn’t_ ,” Allison shouts, shoving away from Chris. She’s shaking, her breathing gone quick and shallow. “She killed _children_ the last time she was in Beacon Hills, Dad! _Children_. And I _know_ you didn’t buy her story that those humans in Chicago were accidental casualties. She killed them because they were part of the pack, because they were mated to werewolves, and then she got rid of the rest of the pack while they were grieving over their dead. Without any _proof_ that the pack had ever done wrong! Where is that in our Code, Dad?”

“It’s not,” Chris says. He sounds devastated. “It’s not, that isn’t what we’re about.”

“Kate’s out of control,” Allison says thickly; Chris doesn’t even try to voice an argument, which means he knows it’s true.

“I’ll go speak to Gerard,” he finally says. “First thing tomorrow morning. We’ll figure it out - your friend won’t be harmed.”

“We should go tonight,” Allison says. “What if they make their move - ”

“They won’t,” Chris says. He reaches out, his hand curling warm and steady around her upper arm. “It’s late, they’ll want some time to formulate a plan of attack. You should get some sleep, and I’ll take care of this in the morning.”

“But Dad - ”

“Allison,” Chris cuts her off. His fingers curl tighter, his gaze serious and somber. “I will take care of this, okay? Everything’s going to be fine.”

Allison isn’t five, and a reassurance that everything will be fine isn’t, in fact, very reassuring anymore. It’s all she has though, and so she clings to it, mustering up a nod for her father.

“Go back to your room,” he murmurs, “and get some sleep.”

Maybe it’s the fact that she feels so in over her head, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s been conditioned to obey orders her entire life; whatever the reason, Allison does as her father asks. She goes back to her own room, strips out of her dusty clothes and pulls on a lightweight shift before she climbs into bed and tries her best to fall asleep, even though she has a sick, sinking feeling that come tomorrow morning, everything that can go wrong will.

~*~*~*~

Allison wakes abruptly, bright morning sunlight shining straight into her eyes. One glance at the window tells her the sun is low enough in the sky that it’s well past sunrise, and she spills hurriedly out of bed, throwing on yesterday’s dirty clothes. She’s still tugging on her boots as she flings her door open, stumbling across the hall to pound on her father’s door. It opens, not fully latched, and she sucks in a breath when she finds it empty. He’s gone then, he’s left without her, and Allison swallows, worry sharp and bitter in her mouth.

She rushes back to her own room, where she slips a knife into her boot, another at the small of her back, and two more in the sheaths she keeps hidden underneath her shirt, strapped tight to her forearms. She grabs the bag with her crossbow and arrows, slings it over her shoulder, and fairly flings herself downstairs.

Ms. Martin is wiping down the tables in the front room, and Allison makes a beeline for her, breathing punchy and panicked.

“My dad,” she says. “Have you seen him?”

“He left first thing this morning,” Ms. Martin says calmly. “Said if you came asking for him, to tell you he had a few things to take care of and not to worry. Would you like some breakfast, sweetheart? It’s a little late, but I could have cook whip you something up, no problem - ”

“Wait, what time is it?” Allison asks, squinting at the windows, where the sun is still shining brightly through.

“Nearly eight,” Ms. Martin says, and Allison’s fingers clench fitfully around the strap of her bag.

“Has Scott been by?” she asks desperately. “Scott McCall?”

Ms. Martin shakes her head, looking confused. “Can’t say I’ve seen him. Is everything all right, Allison? You’re looking a bit flushed.”

“Fine,” Allison croaks. “Fine, I just - no breakfast, thank you, I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, just takes off for the barn, where she gets her horse saddled up in a matter of minutes. Something must have gone wrong. It makes sense for her father to still be gone, but there’s nothing that could keep Scott from coming to see her when he said he would, and he should have been here hours ago. Allison herself would normally have been up with the sun, but she remembers tossing and turning most of the night, unable to fall asleep until the sky was starting to lighten with dawn.

She’s cursing herself for that, now.

Beacon Hills is already plenty busy, people bustling about, in the thick of their daily routines. Allison heads straight for Whittemore’s, glad when she finds Mr. Whittemore at the counter, instead of Jackson.

“Did Scott come back from his delivery this morning?” she asks without preamble. 

“No, but he wasn’t planning to,” Mr. Whittemore says placidly, hardly glancing up from where he’s poring over his ledger. “He and Stiles went out together, it was a larger-than-usual order, and Scott asked if he could have the morning, provided he came back for the afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Allison says automatically, immediately darting back outside for her horse. Something’s wrong, something is absolutely wrong, and on a hunch, she nudges her horse into a gallop, heading toward the path they had walked last night. His long strides eat up the distance far faster than she could on foot, and it’s mere minutes before she’s turning down the side track that Scott had pointed out to her the previous evening.

She hasn’t yet reached Morell’s house when her gaze falls on a person lying on the side of the path, folded into a crumpled heap. Her heart leaps into her throat, and she scrambles off her horse, dashing over to the figure.

It’s Scott, she knows it as soon as she falls to her knees beside him, and he groans as she reaches out an unsteady hand to his head.

“Oh, Scott,” she says thickly, eyes widening in horror as her fingertips come away sticky with blood.

“Took Stiles,” Scott mumbles, words so slurred Allison can barely make them out. “Bandits, I think, hafta help, help ‘im, please...”

“We will, I will,” Allison babbles, “but first - someone needs to help _you_ , Scott, you - oh God, oh my _God_ \- help! Somebody!”

She’s screaming into the desert, as if anyone is even around to hear, but she can’t bear the thought of leaving Scott here for long enough to go find help, not with the blood that’s seeping from his head, already spread, thick and tacky, into the dust around him.

“Shhhhh,” Scott whispers, blinking muzzily up at her. “S’okay, m’okay. They only - jus’ tapped me with a gun t’knock me out. Good thing I have a hard head.”

The blood tells a different story, as does the sharp rock he’s lying beside, the one he must have struck when he hit the ground. Allison chokes back a sob and shouts again, her panicked, “Help us, _please_ ,” breaking apart the morning’s quiet hum.

She has no idea who she’s even yelling for, and it’s with no small amount of surprise that she hears a sudden pounding of footsteps. She jerks her head up as four figures draw to an abrupt halt. One steps forward, and the sunlight catches on his eyes, revealing a glint of red. Allison’s breath catches.

“Derek Hale,” she says weakly, and Hale’s eyes narrow, even as he crouches over Scott.

“Who are you?” he demands, checking Scott’s breathing, then his heart, his expression turning grim as he takes in the copious amounts of blood.

“Allison,” she replies, and Hale makes a noise, like he knows exactly who she is. Which makes sense, since Stiles had been to see him last night, had probably told him all about her. “I’m Scott’s - we’re - please, he’s - we have to get him to the doctor.

Hale shakes his head though, his mouth a thin, flat line. “He won’t survive a trip back to town,” he says roughly. One of the three betas starts forward, a lean young man with curly hair, but Hale’s gaze snaps immediately to him, keeping him right where he is.

“Then give him the bite,” Allison hears herself say, a sort of numbness forcing its way through her veins. It’s blasphemous of her, but she doesn’t care, not in this moment, not if it will fix Scott, who’s starting to look glazed. She’s the very definition of desperate, willing to try anything that might keep Scott from dying. “Give him the bite, it’ll save him.”

Hale opens his mouth - maybe to argue - but the same beta who had jerked forward, the one with curly hair and sharp cheekbones, says, “Derek, you have to. It’s his only chance.”

Allison swears she hears a growl rumble through Hale’s throat, but he doesn’t waste any more time, just yanks Scott’s shirt up, then bends down and bites, suddenly in possession of fangs that sink easily into Scott’s skin, carving a bloody crescent into his side.

Scott’s too out of it to even scream, and Allison is suddenly filled with the terrifying thought that even the bite won’t be enough, that Scott is too near death for the healing to kick in the way it should.

She takes a sharp, shallow breath, then another, and another, and she’s on her way to hyperventilating when Hale lifts his head from Scott’s side, mouth bloody and slick, and grabs Allison by the arm, yanking her close. She lets it happen, doesn’t even attempt to reach for her knife.

“What happened here?” Hale snaps. “Who did this to Scott? I can smell Stiles, but he’s not - where _is_ he, why isn’t he here?”

“Please,” Allison says, her voice steady in a way her breathing isn’t. “Please - let’s just get him to the house, and I’ll - I’ll explain everything. Please.”

Hale doesn’t look particularly interested in that idea, but his betas are already bending down to gently gather Scott up, carrying him so carefully back toward the house. Hale doesn’t try to grab Allison, but she has a feeling he’s fighting the urge to drag her along behind him. He doesn’t trust her, that much is clear, and Allison can’t even blame him for that, not at all. She’d be infinitely more wary about following Derek Hale anywhere right now, but for the fact that Scott’s life is hanging in the balance, and Stiles is God knows where, and it’s all her fault, so somehow, she has to fix it.

She’s to blame, and Hale may very well want to kill her once she’s explained everything, but she’s hoping his instinct to go after Stiles will prove stronger than whatever vengeance he might feel like exacting on an Argent.

~*~*~*~

The Hale house rears up before them, a charcoal smudge against an unforgiving landscape. Allison’s stomach flips sickeningly as she takes in the damage of what was probably once a beautiful home. Now it’s a ruined frame, nothing but a charred skeleton that juts viciously into the air, drawing a jagged line across the horizon.

Kate did this, and she did it while children were inside.

Allison dismounts from her horse and follows Hale and his wolves inside, keeping a concerned eye on Scott’s limp form. The blood, at least, seems to have stopped.

“Sit,” Hale says as soon as they’re inside, pointing to a wooden chair. His betas carry Scott down the hall, presumably to wherever a bed is.

“Explain,” Hale orders.

Allison takes a deep breath, then sends up a silent prayer that he won’t kill her on the spot once she reveals what she’s doing here.

“My name is Allison Argent,” she says, and Hale’s reaction is immediate. He roars, his fingernails - now claws - digging into the table hard enough to dig grooves. Allison sits as still as she possibly can, hardly daring to breathe as she watches Hale, who looks as if he’s talking himself down from gutting her right where she’s sitting.

“My family heard you were back in Beacon Hills,” she continues, unable to keep a tremor from her voice. “Gerard - my grandfather - called us here to hunt down you and your pack.”

Hale’s on his feet in the next instant, circling around the table to grab Allison by the throat, yanking her from her seat and shoving her into the wall. She makes a hurt noise as her back connects, a helpless whimper escaping her.

“Why did they take Stiles?” he shouts.

“I - I don’t - as a hostage, I think, to lure you out,” Allison manages. “I told - I accidentally - they know what he is to you. My Aunt Kate, she knows. I think she probably took him.”

Hale’s expression goes absolutely feral, and it’s then that Allison remembers who Kate is to him, what she, in particular, _did_ to him.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand,” Hale threatens, his eyes a brilliant, terrifying red. “Give me one good reason, Argent.”

“Because I want to get Stiles back as much as you do,” Allison chokes. “I can _help_ you.”

Hale leans in, mouth hovering right over her ear. “Why should I believe you?” he asks.

“You can tell if I’m lying, can’t you?” Allison asks, lifting her chin a little. Hale’s grip on her neck relaxes, just enough for her to be able to speak normally. “I - I love Scott, and I never meant to drag Stiles into this - he wasn’t supposed to get _hurt_. I want to help get him back. Please - _please_ let me help.”

“This reeks of a trap,” Hale says. “And contrary to what your grandfather seems to think, I’m not stupid.” His lips pull away from his teeth, baring them in a threatening snarl. “Your family killed _my_ family,” he says, and although he’s loosened his grip on Allison’s neck, she can feel the pinprick of claws now, barely held back from piercing her skin.

“Because they were attacking people,” Allison forces out. “Kate saw them, your parents, she saw them covered in blood the night before they found a body - ”

“An omega invaded _our_ territory,” Hale says furiously. “ _It_ was responsible for the attacks. My parents - my _pack_ \- we were _handling_ it.”

Allison sucks in a sharp breath, thinking about the evidence that Kate hadn’t been able to produce. She had assumed the Hales had just covered their tracks well, but maybe there hadn’t been any evidence to find. Because if Hale is telling the truth, maybe his family hadn’t been responsible for the attacks at all.

The worst part might be how easily Allison can believe that Kate acted without proof, without being sure. Kate’s proven time and again that she’s more interested in hunting down werewolves and those close to werewolves, regardless of whether or not they’ve committed a crime. 

“And you killed my mother,” Allison adds, though to her surprise, she isn’t filled with her usual rush of hatred at the knowledge. Sadness, yes, but no seething need for vengeance. 

Hale’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t,” he says, and Allison grits her teeth, forces herself to meet his gaze.

“In Dodge City,” Allison says. “She - and you killed her, left her to bleed out.”

The red hasn’t left Hale’s eyes, and he snarls as he leans in closer. “Is that what they told you?” he asks. “That _I_ \- she attacked Laura, she brought her down long enough for Gerard to kill her. So I bit her, but that was all - she would have survived.”

“Then how is it she’s dead?” Allison snaps.

Hale finally shifts back, affording her a little bit more breathing room. His expression is cold. “I heard the shot as I ran,” he says, voice flat. “Whether she killed herself or Gerard put her down, I don’t know. My money’s on Gerard, personally.”

“No,” Allison says, shaking her head in disbelief. Her stomach twists sickeningly, and she swallows against the rising queasiness in the back of her throat. “No, you’re _lying_ \- ”

“I’m not,” Hale says. “I’d be more than happy to take credit for killing an Argent, but her death isn’t on my head.”

The worst of it is that deep down, Allison believes him. She doesn’t _want_ to, but it makes a sort of terrible sense.

She’s more inclined to believe it was Gerard’s doing; if anyone could have fought a werewolf’s killing urges, it would have been Allison’s mother. And Allison can’t quite wrap her mind around the idea that her mother would willingly _leave_ her, abandon her by taking her own life.

It’s a lot of information to take in at once, and the worst of it might be that if Hale is telling the truth - about everything, not just her mother - then he’s only been acting in self-defense this entire time. Her family has been ruthlessly hunting the Hales down without proper cause, and any crimes Hale has committed were only because the Argents had driven him to them, left him without other options.

It makes sense, suddenly, exactly how Stiles could have found it in himself to love Derek Hale.

“I can’t undo what my family’s done to you,” Allison hears herself saying, voice shaky, from fear, from anger, from devastation. “But this - I can help you get Stiles back. Please, _please_ let me help you do that.”

“She did beg you to turn her boyfriend into a werewolf,” a voice breaks in. Hale shifts away from Allison, turns to look, and over his shoulder she can see the female beta, arms crossed and a single eyebrow raised. “That’s not exactly your typical hunter request,” she continues, gazing piercingly at Hale.

Hale is still for long moments, and when he turns back to Allison, his expression has gone wolfish. “I’m only doing this to find Stiles,” he growls “If I think for even a moment that you are about to betray us, I will not hesitate to kill you, do you understand me?”

“I do,” Allison promises. “I do, I - is Scott, is he - ” she starts to ask, finding the female beta over Hale’s shoulder.

“He’s sleeping,” the girl says, flipping her long, curled blonde hair over her shoulder. “The bite’s already beginning to heal. The fact that he was injured - I think it’s sped up the process.”

Allison breathes a sigh of thankfulness, and when Hale abruptly takes his hand from her throat, she collapses to the floor, boneless with relief.

“Erica, get Boyd,” Hale orders. “Argent, where did they take him?”

“There’s a house,” Allison says. “Where they’ve been staying - I can draw you a map.”

A rumble sounds from deep in Hale’s chest. “What makes you think you aren’t coming with us?” he asks dangerously.

“You’ll get there faster than I will,” Allison says. “It’s nearer to the next town than this one.”

Hale’s jaw clenches sharply, but he finally breathes a sharp exhale through his nose, and Allison can tell he sees the sense in it.

“Isaac will stay here, to keep an eye on you and Scott,” Hale says. “Draw me that map. If you’re not here when I return, I will come find you, do you understand?”

His threat promises terrible things should Allison try to run away, and she nods quickly, digging out L’Art de La Guerre from her bag, so she can rip a page from it. There’s burnt wood in abundance, and so she simply picks a piece up from the floor and sketches a crude map onto it.

“There,” she says, handing it back to Hale. “It’s thirty minutes on horseback north, then head east once you reach a canyon. They’ll be in a two-story house, with a barn in the back. There’s nothing else within eyesight, you should find it easily.”

Hale folds the map up and shoves it into his coat pocket. Erica and Boyd join him, and at some unspoken signal, the three of them exit the house together. A howl echoes through the air, growing rapidly quieter as the pack takes off.

Allison doesn’t waste any time going to find Scott; he’s been laid down on a nest of blankets in what must have once been a bedroom, and Isaac is bent over him, frowning.

“How is he?” Allison asks, the words catching in her throat. “Is he - ”

“He’s doing well,” Isaac says. “Better than I’d have expected, actually. I’ve never seen someone heal from the bite so quickly.” He gestures at Scott’s side, and Allison steps close enough to see that the bite marks are nearly closed, the skin around them nothing more than red and puffy.

“And his head?” Allison asks.

Isaac shrugs. “Good as new,” he says. He straightens then, looking at Allison with a shrewd, level gaze. “So,” he says, “you’re a hunter.”

“I am.”

“And you’re here to kill all of us.”

“I - ” Allison breaks off, lowers herself down beside Scott, where she can gently brush his hair out of his eyes. Her heart leaps as he gives a sleepy mumble and turns toward her, unconsciously seeking her out. “My family is. Was. Yes.”

“Have you changed your mind?”

Allison looks up to meet Isaac’s piercing gaze. His eyes are a deep, clear blue, and he watches her patiently, waiting for her answer.

“I think I have,” she finally says, voice soft. “I thought - I was told that his family was responsible for a number of attacks, years ago, and - and my mother’s death, but...”

“But there was never any proof,” Isaac supplies. “And you believe him when he says he and his family were trying to stop it.”

“I do,” Allison says. “I believe him.”

Isaac looks satisfied with that, and he lowers himself to the ground, graceful despite his long limbs. “If they’ve hurt Stiles, all bets are off,” he says idly. “Derek will kill everyone he can get his hands on. He might do that anyway. You realize that, don’t you?”

Allison’s stomach twists, realizing for the first time that Derek - it’s too difficult to keep thinking of him as Hale now, as the enemy - probably won’t stop at getting Stiles back, that he must be just as thirsty for revenge as her own family has been, and that she’s possibly signed a death warrant for the last remaining members of her family.

“I don’t want to talk about that now,” she finally says. “Please don’t - I can’t talk about that.”

Isaac shrugs, his expression almost cruel, unconcerned as it is, but he doesn’t press her any further.

The two of them settle into a heavy silence as they wait for Scott to wake up or for Derek to return, whichever comes first.

~*~*~*~

Scott comes to almost an hour later, groaning, his hand going straight to his head.

“Wha’s ‘appened?” he asks, voice cracking. He frowns, winces, then blinks his eyes open, gaze unerringly finding Allison right away. “Allison?” he says. “What’re you - what’re you _doing_ here?”

“Are you okay?” Allison asks instead, reaching out to grip his shoulder, carefully helping him sit up. “Do you feel all right?”

“My head’s a little achy, but - pretty good, I guess?” Scott says. “But I don’t - what’s going on?”

“You were attacked,” Isaac breaks in. Scott turns to face him, though he doesn’t look particularly surprised to find him there. “The Argents took Stiles, you hit your head, and Derek bit you to save you. Congratulations, you are the newest member of the Hale pack.”

Scott’s mouth drops open, and after a few stuttered attempts at speech, he finally says, “Who - the Argents? As in, the werewolf hunters?”

“My family,” Allison says shakily, and she steels herself against a flinch as Scott’s eyes widen. “I’m an Argent. I’ve - I’ve been lying to you, and I am so sorry.”

For long seconds, no one speaks; Scott doesn’t do anything but stare at Allison, betrayal and horror and fear flickering over his face.

“But why take Stiles?” he whispers, gaze unwavering from Allison. “Why - Stiles isn’t a werewolf.”

“To draw Derek out, I imagine,” Isaac breaks in. “He’s the best leverage money could buy.”

“You _told_ them?” Scott asks, his words nearly a cry, and it’s then that he actually shifts away from Allison, yanks his arm out of her grasp. “You told them about Stiles and Derek - but you _promised_!”

“I didn’t mean to,” Allison says quickly, more than a little pleadingly. “I didn’t - I _never_ meant to bring Stiles into it, but my aunt, she overheard me. I thought I’d have time to fix it before she made a move, but I didn’t - I’m so _sorry_ , Scott, please - ”

Scott’s gaze goes cold though, and he pushes himself to his feet, looking pointedly at Isaac. “We have to go get him back,” he says.

“Derek, Erica, and Boyd are already working on it,” Isaac says. “You should probably rest a little more - ”

“Stiles is my _best_ friend,” Scott interrupts. “He’s my _brother_ , and I’m not sitting by while he could be - ” He trails off abruptly, and Allison watches as he and Isaac both turn toward the door, their bodies radiating anticipation. Not a minute later, Derek bursts through the door, eyes red, fangs out, dragging a body behind him.

“Dad!” Allison cries out, watching as Derek tosses Chris to the floor. He’s bound tightly with a rope Allison recognizes as belonging to Bennett, and he’s bleeding sluggishly from a cut over his left eyebrow.

“Stiles wasn’t there,” Derek snarls, advancing on Allison. “ _No one_ was there, except for _him_.” He jerks a claw at Chris, who moans as Erica and Boyd enter, grabbing at the rope and hauling him to a sitting position.

Chris is clinging to consciousness, Allison can tell, but when he looks at her, his eyes are clear and steady. He checks Allison over carefully, the way he’s done dozens of times, and when he sees that she’s unhurt, he nods. “I tried,” he croaks, and Derek freezes, whips around to face him.

“Tried what?” he demands.

“Tried to talk them out of it,” Chris says. He’s wheezing; Allison worries that he’s cracked a rib. “I got there just as they were getting ready to leave. When I’d spoken my piece - Gerard got me with the hilt of his sword, then tied me up, said he’d leave me that way ‘til I “came to my senses”.”

“They took Stiles, Dad,” Allison says. “Do you know where they might have him?”

Chris’ eyes close, and for a moment Allison isn’t sure if he’s on the verge of passing out or if he’s just thinking, but he blinks them open again and says, “That house we saw when we first came into Beacon Hills. On the south side of town, out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Harris’ place,” Scott says. “It’s been empty for months - he’s been back on the East coast, getting some fancy degree.”

“Boyd, I want you with him,” Derek says, nodding towards Chris. “Isaac, Erica, you’re with me. And _you_ ,” he says, turning on Allison, “you’re coming with me this time, too.”

“No,” Chris says, just as Scott steps forward.

“You’re not leaving me behind,” he says. Derek looks him over carefully, like he’s gauging whether or not Scott is up to a rescue mission, but after a moment he nods, apparently satisfied.

“Allison, _no_ ,” Chris says again, but Allison just smiles weakly, crosses over to a press a kiss to his head.

“I’m going to make this right,” she says very quietly, then looks over at Boyd. “Please don’t hurt him. He was trying to get Stiles back.”

Boyd nods, and Allison follows the werewolves outside, ignoring her father’s increasingly agitated shouts.

“Scott, you’ll lead,” Derek announces, while Allison mounts her horse, giving the creature a comforting pat as it prances nervously in place, eyes rolling at the proximity of the werewolves. “We’ll stop when we’re still out of sight, I don’t want to give away our location.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Allison asks Scott, fingers curled tightly around her reins.

“I am,” Scott says shortly. He won’t look her in the eye, and Allison swallows back an uncomfortable wave of sorrow. Now isn’t the time.

The pack breaks into an easy lope, quickly building their pace, until Allison has to kick into a gallop just to keep up with them. She wonders at the fact that Scott is taking to his newfound werewolfhood so easily, but she has a feeling he’s just pushing his feelings to the side until they’ve got Stiles safely back.

They don’t dare pass too close to town, but even with the wide loop they take, they reach the south side of town in twenty minutes. It’s another few minutes after that Scott finally pulls up short, the pack stopping so suddenly that Allison yanks too hard on her horse’s reins and sets him rearing.

“The house is just over the hill,” Scott says. He’s barely breathing hard.

“I can smell him,” Derek growls, eyes still their dangerous, bloody red. He turns to Allison, who dismounts, lifting her chin as he approaches.

“I could go in,” she offers quietly. “I might be able to get him out before they realize - ”

Derek cuts her off with an abrupt shake of his head. “They’ll assume you’re with your father on this,” he says, “and look what they did to _him_. No, we’ll do this my way.” And with that, he grabs Allison by her vest, drags her in and sets his claws to her throat.

“No!” Scott yells, eyes flashing a beautiful gold as he lunges forward, pulling up short only when Derek growls and bares his teeth. “No,” he says again, breathing harder now than he had while they’d been running. “Please, don’t - don’t hurt her.”

“I’m not,” Derek says, although Allison can feel the tips of his claws pressing into her skin. Her heart gives a terrified flutter, one she’s sure all of the werewolves can hear.

“What’s your plan, then?” she asks, careful not to move her throat too much.

“A trade,” Derek says. “You for Stiles.”

“And if they don’t bite?” Allison asks, wincing a little at the unintended pun.

“They don’t know about Scott,” Derek says. “While they’re focused on us, he’ll circle around the back. As soon as he has the opportunity, he can grab Stiles and get him out of there.”

It’s a little lacking in finesse, but it’s straightforward and simple, and Allison hopes that it will work.

“Are you going to kill them?” she asks, the words a whisper. “My grandfather and my aunt.”

“I should,” Derek says back. “I have every right to, for all the things they’ve done to me and mine.”

It’s not untrue. Allison holds her breath, waiting for his answer.

“But getting Stiles out is the priority, right?” Scott breaks in, looking from Allison to Derek and back again. “We shouldn’t get sidetracked from that - people could get hurt.”

“He’s right,” Isaac agrees, while Erica nods. “We should get in, get Stiles, and get out. We can figure the rest out after.”

Derek makes a deep, complicated noise that Allison takes as unhappy assent.

“Let’s go,” he says, and their group begins to move forward, Allison stumbling along in front of Derek, his hand never leaving her throat. Scott stays close, clearly disliking the way Derek is manhandling Allison along, but he doesn’t protest again. She wonders if it’s a pack hierarchy compulsion, to do as his Alpha sees best, or if she’s broken things so irreparably between them that he thinks this is exactly what she deserves.

Derek orders Scott to stay put just before they crest the hill, and Scott obeys, although the way he’s watching Allison makes her chest ache.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, in the instant before Derek forces her to keep walking. Scott’s face twists, and he looks down, shoulders hunched and tight.

The house is a mere 30 yards away once they come over the hill, and Allison can see Bennett and Thompson standing watch at the door, their rifles at the ready. They scramble into position as soon as they spot their group, but as they get closer, Allison can see Bennett’s eyes widen.

“Allison?” he asks, his rifle wavering in the air. “What the _hell_ \- ”

“They caught me,” Allison calls out, injecting a tremble into her voice, as if she’s on the verge of tears. “Please - they just want to make a trade - where’s Stiles - ”

A tortured shout rings out just then, coming from inside the house, and Derek roars a challenge, jerking hard enough that his claws scratch across Allison’s throat. Deep enough to sting, though not enough to do any serious damage.

“Please,” Allison chokes, although she’s not doing nearly so much acting this time.

Bennett and Thompson exchange terrified looks, but Bennett apparently comes to a decision and quickly opens the door.

“Gerard!” he yells. “You need to get out here!”

Derek, Allison and his pack have ranged themselves in front of the house by the time Gerard steps out. A tic starts in his jaw as he takes in the sight of them, lingering briefly over the blood seeping down Allison’s neck.

“Where is he?” Derek snarls. “Where’s Stiles?”

A twisted smile tugs at Gerard’s mouth. “Enjoying some quality time with my daughter,” he says easily, as another wretched sob fills the air, cracked and broken. 

Allison can feel the vibrations of Derek’s growl, pressed up where she is against his chest. On either side of them, she can hear Isaac and Erica echoing the sound.

“Bring him to me,” Derek orders. “Unless you want me to slit your granddaughter’s throat right where she stands.”

Gerard casually slides his hands into his pockets, taking one, then two steps forward. “And if you do that,” he says quietly, his voice a clear threat, “what’s to stop me from doing the same to your precious Stiles, then shooting you where you stand?”

“Grandfather, please,” Allison begs, gasping as Derek presses harder against her throat, her hands reaching up in an effort to tug his arm away.

“You know, sweetheart,” Gerard says, sounding distressingly unconcerned about her current plight. “I have to say, your little performance would be much more convincing if your father hadn’t shown up this morning, trying to insist we leave the Alpha’s mate out of this, that both you and he agreed the Sheriff’s son hadn’t done any wrong. It seems to me that your stay in Beacon Hills has mixed up your priorities a little.”

Allison gapes at him, fingers scrabbling at Derek’s forearm.

“A sympathizer,” Gerard continues, “is no better than the animal itself.”

“No,” Allison says. “No, that isn’t - ”

“Though,” Gerard says, “I could be persuaded from making an example of the boy if our Alpha friend here decided to give himself up in exchange.”

Allison doesn’t feel any reaction from Derek - no stiffening of his spine, or tensing of his muscles. He takes a slow, even breath, one that ruffles her hair as he exhales, and Allison wonders if he was planning for this the whole time.

“I want to see him,” Derek says. “Bring him out here, and then we’ll talk.”

“Gladly,” Gerard says, with another twisted smile. “Kate!”

There’s the telltale click of Kate’s boots, accompanied by the sound of a dragging body, and then Kate appears at the door, with Wilson beside her and Stiles between them.

Allison cries out, and she isn’t the only one. Stiles’ face is bruised and bloody, and he’s been stripped of his shirt. In the center of his chest is an ugly, oozing wound - a brand, unless Allison is much mistaken, comprised of the letters ‘W’ and ‘M’.

“His very own scarlet letter,” Kate says proudly, though her smirk falters as she takes in Allison, still trapped and bleeding against Derek’s chest. She has her pistol out in seconds, aimed over Allison’s head, at Derek’s instead.

“You’d take that shot?” Derek asks. “Really? With your own niece in the way?”

Kate’s mouth tightens, and beside her, Stiles’ head jerks up; Allison can see tear tracks streaking through the dust and dirt covering his face. He looks glazed, but his gaze unwaveringly finds Derek.

“Derek,” he says hoarsely, his voice a wreck, the kind of damage that comes from screaming. “Derek, get out of here - they won’t kill me, it’d be stupid to, please - ”

“Would it really?” Gerard asks idly. “When they find your body, who would your father be more likely to blame? The outlaw werewolf who’s been lurking at the edge of town, or the hunters he doesn’t even know are here?”

Stiles glares up at him, his expression pure defiance. His jaw works furiously for a moment, and then he spits at Gerard’s feet.

Gerard chuckles darkly, and it takes Allison by complete surprise when he backhands Stiles across the face. Derek lunges forward with an outraged howl, dragging Allison with him, freezing only when Gerard unsheathes the sword he keeps at his hip and places it at Stiles’ throat.

“You and Allison,” he says crisply, “in exchange for the boy.”

“Fine,” Derek says, ignoring Stiles’ cry of “No!”

“Oh, Derek, sweetheart,” Kate says, though it’s not up to her usual careless standard, “we’re going to have some fun. Just like old times. Now let go of my niece.”

Derek releases Allison so unexpectedly that she stumbles forward, hands out to catch herself. Kate forgets herself enough to let go of Stiles and jerk forward, clearly intending to help her, and that’s when Scott leaps from the roof, angling for Gerard and knocking him to the ground.

The sword clatters out of harm’s way, but Allison ducks as she hears at least two shots ring out, difficult to pick out amongst the sudden chorus of howls. It’s utter chaos all around her; Scott’s grappling with Gerard, while Derek grabs Kate and tosses her aside, as easily as you would a rag doll. He goes straight for Stiles, slashing viciously at Wilson, who drops his gun to clutch at his shoulder, his shirt already blooming with red.

Bennett darts forward to help Allison up. She accepts his hand, then, seeing Erica readying herself to pounce, grabs Bennett’s rifle and slams the butt of it into the side of his head. He drops like a rock, sprawled senseless on the ground.

“Sorry, Bennett,” she murmurs, “but I don’t have claws, so - I think you’ll thank me later.” Erica shoots her a brief glare, but doesn’t linger, moving forward to help Isaac out with Thompson.

The battle’s over before Allison knows it. Bennett’s unconscious, Thompson and Wilson are both weaponless and cowering, and Kate’s only now pushing herself to her feet, just in time for Isaac to grab her arms and twist them up behind her back, trapping her.

Scott and Gerard are still grappling, but Gerard isn’t any match for a werewolf’s strength, and soon enough, Scott’s overpowered him, pinning him neatly to the dusty ground.

Allison turns back to Derek, who’s scooped Stiles up, almost cradling him to his chest. Stiles is trying his damnedest to look annoyed, but the effect is lessened considerably by the flashes of pain that keep cutting across his face.

“Are you okay?” Allison asks, and Stiles shrugs, then winces.

“I’ll live,” he mutters, head falling back against Derek’s shoulder in something that looks a lot like exhaustion.

“What’re we going to do about the big bad hunters?” Erica asks, nudging Bennett none-too-kindly with the toe of her boot.

“Kill them,” Derek says, his words like a physical punch to Allison’s chest.

“No!” she exclaims. “No, you can’t - ”

“Look at what they _did_ ,” Derek says thunderingly. “Look at what they did to Stiles! And they were ready to let me kill you, too.”

“I should have,” Gerard rasps, and Allison jerks around to see him glaring at her, his expression cold and furious. “Better you were dead than consorting with _werewolves_.”

It’s a brutal statement, and it causes her to rear back, as if she’s been slapped.

“You see?” Derek says. “We’re not the monsters here, Allison, _they_ are.”

“I - please,” Allison says, gaze sliding from her grandfather over to Kate, who’s been silent so far, though her mouth is set in a tight, unhappy lines. “Please don’t kill them.”

“We should take ‘em to my dad,” Stiles says suddenly. “After he sees what they did to me - he’ll be on a warpath.”

“You think he won’t want to lynch them himself?” Scott asks, sounding dubious.

“He might,” Stiles replies. “But I think it’d be better to bring the law into it - maybe publicize it, even, to show people that things aren’t black and white, that hunters aren’t always the good guys, and werewolves aren’t always bad.”

“Let’s do that,” Erica agrees quickly. “I just got these boots, I’d rather not get blood on them.” She sounds flippant, but Allison thinks there’s relief coloring her voice. Isaac certainly looks thankful, his shoulders far looser than they were just a moment ago. Allison doesn’t believe Scott would have it in himself to kill someone anyway, which leaves only Derek, who Allison highly doubts is going to be letting go of Stiles any time soon.

“Fine,” Derek grits out. “Tie them up, then, and let’s get back to town.”

There’s rope in Allison’s saddlebags, and more inside the house. Isaac is apparently a master at knots, and he has all of the hunters secured in no time at all. He hesitates once he’s finished, glancing uncertainly at Allison, then at Derek.

Derek gives a small shake of his head, so Isaac rolls up the rest of his rope.

They leave Wilson, Thompson and Bennett behind, but Derek insists they bring Kate and Gerard with them, unwilling to let them out of his sight for even a second. He carries Stiles, while Erica and Isaac march behind their captives, nudging them forward with their claws whenever they start to slow.

Scott drops back to hang with Allison, and by mutual agreement they slow their steps until there’s a comfortable distance between them and the rest of the group.

“I think you owe me an explanation,” Scott finally says, voice tight.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Allison says. She feels worn out and dull, emotionally wrung out from the past 24 hours. 

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Scott says, so Allison does. She tells him everything she can think to - how she’d spent the first six years of her life in an oblivious bubble, how her training had started after she turned seven. She tells him about Gerard’s lessons and her natural talent with a bow and arrow and the first time she’d gone on a hunt. 

Her voice cracks when she talks about her mother, about the lies she’s been fed, about the awful things that Kate has done, about the task she’d been set while they were in Beacon Hills.

Scott’s face is hard to read once she’s finished. He still looks angry, but it’s at war with sympathy and perhaps even pity. They’re right on the outskirts of town when he puts a hand on Allison’s elbow, his touch just as gentle and sweet as ever, and stops her.

“And you and me,” he says quietly, like he’s having a difficult time forcing the words out, “was that a lie, too? Was it all fake?”

“No,” she says, and there’s that burning sensation at the back of her throat, a pressure building behind her eyes, because Scott somehow has the ability to force his way past all of her walls and defenses. “No, it wasn’t. I was - I got selfish, and I wanted something for my own, and you were... you were perfect. You were everything I ever wanted, you _are_ , and I took it, because I’m not a good person, Scott. All the things I’ve done - the things my family has done - I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I brought you into it, for what I did to _Stiles_ \- ”

Her voice catches, and that’s when the tears start to spill over. She wipes them away furiously, but she can’t keep up with the steady flow, it’s simply more than she can handle.

“Allison - ” Scott begins, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head.

“I love you,” she says miserably. “And I’m so sorry.”

Scott doesn’t profess his own love for her, and he doesn’t sweep her into a heart-stopping kiss, the way most novels would have you believe. He does, however, carefully pull Allison into an embrace, and the tears come faster, until she’s weeping against his chest. It’s nothing she can hold back anymore, not when she’s drowning in guilt and grief, the knowledge that she did this to Stiles, that her own family was responsible for her mother’s death, that the Argents themselves so decimated an innocent family.

That she’s certainly lost Scott for good, just like she always knew she would.

Scott just holds though, quietly, until her sobs subside. There’s a wet patch on his shirt when she pulls away, and she sniffs, embarrassed, pressing the edge of her sleeve uselessly to it, trying to soak up some of the stain.

“It’s fine,” Scott says gently, reaching out and brushing an errant strand of hair back behind her ear. It’s almost brutal in its kindness, and Allison ducks her head, unable to look him in the eye.

“We should catch up to the others,” she says thickly. “They’ll need - the Sheriff. He’ll need to hear everyone’s side of the story.”

“Okay,” Scott says.

They pick up their pace, quickly closing the distance between themselves and the pack.

Scott doesn’t take her hand, but then, Allison doesn’t expect him to.

~*~*~*~

A werewolf may not be able to give testimony in a court of law, but the word of two renowned hunters, not to mention the Sheriff’s own son, is more than enough evidence to lock someone up for the rest of their lives.

The Sheriff is all for a hanging, but Chris manages to talk him down from that, though Allison isn’t sure how. When the dust settles, it’s been decided that both Kate and Gerard will be living out the rest of their days behind bars. Bennett, Wilson and Thompson receive similar, though less permanent, sentences.

Allison is half-expecting to be saddled with charges and a punishment herself, but her and her father’s cooperation apparently earns them a deal, because the Sheriff never even mentions their own wrongdoings, though when he looks at them, there’s far more anger than gratitude.

Stiles spends a day or two in bed, but he’s up on his feet sooner rather than later. He’ll make a full recovery, though there’s nothing anyone can do about the awful mark on his chest. Allison avoids him at all costs, holing up with her father in their rooms at the inn, where Ms. Martin is still willing to take their money, but no longer offers breakfast or makes flirtatious small talk with Chris.

The town doesn’t know the full details of what happened, but they know enough to pin some blame to Allison and her father, and as the days pass, it’s increasingly clear how unwelcome they are.

Scott hasn’t come by at all.

It hasn’t been a full week before Allison wakes one morning and crosses the hall, only to find her father in the middle of packing up his things.

“We’re leaving?” she asks quietly. Chris doesn’t startle, doesn’t even look up from his bags.

“I think that’s for the best, don’t you?” he asks. “I’ve settled up with Ms. Martin. I’d like to be out of here by mid-morning, if you think you can manage that.”

“My things are mostly packed,” Allison says. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

That’s when Chris stills, slowly straightening up to meet Allison’s gaze head on. The cut over his eye looks much better, but it’s still healing, red and angry, just like the scratches along Allison’s throat.

“There aren’t any goodbyes you want to make?” he asks nicely, and Allison’s throat tightens.

“No,” she manages. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll meet you down in the stables.”

He doesn’t press her, just nods, and Allison returns to her room, where she dresses quickly, the does a perfunctory check to make sure she has everything. It takes less than ten minutes, and then she’s gathering up her bags and heading for the stairs.

She’s taken aback when she finds Lydia in the front room, clearly waiting for her. 

“You didn’t really think I’d let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?” Lydia says, almost scolding, and she surprises Allison with a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I insist you come back to visit - everyone in this town is boring compared to you.”

Allison laughs in spite of herself, feeling a little stab of regret at not spending more time with Lydia.

“We’ll see,” Allison says diplomatically. “Maybe - maybe someday.”

“Mm-hmm,” Lydia hums, looking annoyingly knowing, but she lets Allison pass without further protest.

The stables are quiet and deserted at this time of day, and Allison sets to work saddling up her horse, then her father’s, making sure the saddlebags are firmly attached. She’s in the middle of cinching them a bit tighter when a nervous ripple of noise flows through the stable, and some of the horses start pawing at the ground.

Allison turns sharply, only to find Scott standing at the entrance, shadowed in the early morning light.

“Lydia came to find me, said you were leaving,” he says, stepping carefully forward. His hand, Allison notices, is clutched tight around a single yellow rose. She can’t imagine where he found one so vibrant. “You - I didn’t know. You didn’t tell anyone.”

“I didn’t know we were going until this morning,” Allison says, mouth dry. “And I thought - I assumed everyone in Beacon Hills would be happy to be rid of us.”

“No,” Scott says. His eyes are that same rich brown they’ve always been, no trace of gold in them. “Not everyone.”

He holds out the rose to Allison, who takes it with an unsteady hand. “Scott,” she says, voice cracking. “I can’t - everything is so complicated right now - ”

“I understand why you have to go,” Scott says gently. He presses his fingertips to her chin, lifts it up slowly. “And I know - we haven’t talked. But I think once you and your father have sorted yourselves out, I think you should come back.”

“But why?” Allison asks. “After everything I’ve done - ”

“Because I think I’m going to miss you something awful,” Scott says, in that earnest, easy way he has. “And now isn’t good, not for any of us, but I think later might - we could maybe work things out, if you still want to try.”

Allison gives a jerky nod, and a small crooked spreads across Scott’s mouth as he leans down to kiss her cheek.

“Stay safe,” Scott says softly. “Don’t forget about me, all right?”

“I could never,” Allison says, with a ragged laugh. “I couldn’t. Not even if I wanted to. I can - I’ll write you letters? If you want.”

“I’d like that,” Scott smiles as he steps away. He turns his head, the instant before Chris steps into view, another reminder of his newly-enhanced senses.

“Scott,” Chris says with a nod, and Scott moves respectfully out of the way.

“Mr. Argent,” he replies, and there’s a quiet moment before Chris reaches out, extends his hand for Scott to shake. Scott’s takes it, surprise stamped all over his face, and Allison smiles to herself, fingers curling protectively around her flower.

“You ready to go?” Chris asks, moving to get his own bags tied to his saddle.

“I am,” Allison says. She meets Scott’s gaze one more time, then pointedly tucks the rose into her messy ponytail, snapping off the excess stem. Scott looks pleased, and it warms Allison all the way through.

“I’ll see you soon,” she promises, then mounts up, following her father out of the stable and into the morning light.

The rose smells sweet, a scent that lingers until the wind in their faces snatches it away, and behind her, Allison knows Scott’s watching, feels his gaze upon her until Beacon Hills is no more than a speck in the distance.

 

\- The End -

**Author's Note:**

> These notes contain SPOILERS, but have been included so as to warn against potential triggers.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> There is a scene of kidnapping and implied torture. Kate and Gerard capture Stiles in order to use him as leverage against Derek. Both the kidnapping and the torture are entirely offscreen, although the aftermath of Stiles' capture is shown. Kate brands his chest with a 'W' and an 'M' (meant to stand for Werewolf's Mate), a "scarlet letter" of sorts, much the way a criminal might be marked for his crimes. (Which, as far as Kate is concerned, Stiles is no better than a criminal himself.)
> 
> There are also some brief mentions of the deaths of children in relation to the Hale house fire, though it's not at all graphic and, I don't believe, any more upsetting than what you would find on the show itself.
> 
> If there's anything I've missed that warrants a warning, or if the system I've devised is insufficient, please don't hesitate to let me know. I'm trying to strike a balance between providing proper warnings, without sacrificing the ability to read this unspoiled, if one so chooses.


End file.
